Scrawled Across Bone
by UrbanHymnal
Summary: There is something deeply ingrained in him, scrawled across his bones that tells him he would follow this voice down into darkness, never flinching, never wavering. Even lost here on the battlefield, John follows. (Rated for violence. Written for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 4.)


John grins, all cheek and teeth. "Maybe if you stop dropping trou every time you get the chance, you wouldn't have that sort of problem."

"You're a fucking wanker, Watson. I swear to-"

The first bullet splits Green's head clean open and John never finds out what he was swearing to. God, his mother: it's all lost in the mess that blossoms out of the front of Green's head.

John knows what is inside a man's head and can name each vein (posterior auricular, supraorbital, angular), each part of the brain (frontal, parietal, occipital). He learned the cranial nerves (Oh, Oh To Touch- and somewhere it gets confused between vaginas and hotdogs, but he can remember it nonetheless) and each bone, but here, standing frozen after the first sharp crack of metal splitting bone, he cannot tell the difference between what used to be Sphenoid and Maxilla.

Green is no longer a sum, but rather parts: pulped and pulverized. He is no longer Green, smiling and jokingly furious. He is grey matter blown out and bone destroyed, a bloody puddle creeping forward to caress John's boots. John cannot move away just as he knows he cannot do anything for the man that has crumpled next to him. He is frozen, his blood replaced by terror.

The second shot cuts a path across John's cheek, ripping and burning flesh. For a moment, he only knows pain, red smearing across his vision and he wonders if this is what Green felt: a moment, a mere second, drawn out for eternity as the bullet destroyed what made him him. When his vision clears, he is on the ground, right hand pressed against his cheek. His right eye refuses to open and his fingers, cupped over his face, are sticky and slick with blood. His left hand, now resting in the puddle of blood, slips from under him, and he rolls gracelessly, uniform soaking up clay and blood.

Another shot kicks up dirt into his face and a voice, firm and deep, says in his ear: You need to move. He doesn't recognize the voice; it isn't his own and it isn't his father's, but it is a voice that he knows he trusts implicitly.

He backs away and backs away and backs away. The space around him yawns, and he waits to tip backwards into nothingness, wills for blackness to swell around him. His eyes roll, trying to search out the sniper, but he sees nothing but open, dry land dotted by the occasional barren bush. It stretches into infinity under a grey and purple sky.

Not that way, the voice says.

He ducks, flattening himself across the ground, and corrects his pathing. His boots scrape against the ground, raising little puffs of dirt in their wake, and for a moment, he thinks he is back home, ducking and weaving through tall grass while his mother yells for him, begging him to come inside. The words sit there on his tongue: I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm here, I'm home. He is lost in the rushes and dirt.

Keep moving, John, you are almost there.

He doesn't ask where there is, but continues to move, each moment expecting the shot that will destroy him. His heart punches away in his throat, causing black spots ringed in white to burst across what little he can see in his field of vision. He belly crawls, rocks digging into his stomach and arms. The skeleton of a building is close, so close, he simply needs to keep moving. The shadow of the building greets him, pulling him into safety. There the last of his strength leaves him. He curls inward, back pressed against crumbling mortar, and tries to remember how to breathe.

Where is the rest of his unit? They should be here, shouting orders and returning fire, but all he can hear over the sound of blood pumping away is silence, roaring and furious. Are they all dead, ruined husks like Green? Did he get separated from them? He can't remember.

Where are you, John?

"You know where I am. Fuck. You know where I am. You know. You know." He gets caught on the last two words. His teeth click and clack, making him sound like a record skipping over and over. When did it get so damn cold?

Where am I then?

John presses his hands against his ears, ignoring the way he smears blood (more now than what he remembered) through his hair, and screws his eyes shut. The question makes no sense. The voice is bodiless, floating somewhere in the darkness surrounding him. "Nowhere." But that isn't right. He tries again. "Everywhere. I don't know."

Yes, you do. Breathe.

He takes a deep breath, expecting his lungs to fill with dirt, blood, and rot, but instead smells the sharp bite of soap, the acrid burn of cigarettes, and the heady smell of sweat. He sobs, but doesn't understand why.

Again.

He does so without thinking, tracks the way the air moves through him, diaphragm and muscles leaping to obey. There is something deeply ingrained in him, scrawled across his bones that tells him he would follow this voice down into darkness, never flinching, never wavering. He inhales again and holds it, lets the burn in his lungs steady him.

The darkness, once friend welcoming him home, is now oppressive. While he fears what he will see should he risk opening his eyes again, he needs something to latch on to, something more than just a disembodied voice.

Follow my voice, John.

He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood; the pain brings focus. He finally forces his eyes open, only to find himself somewhere else entirely. He isn't hiding in a ruined building with blood caked across his uniform. This is his bedroom. There: a clock. There: a mug. There: Sherlock. He is huddled on one corner of the bed, which is ridiculous because Sherlock is dead and John is mad, growing madder by the second. John squeezes his eyes shut again and wonders where he will end up next.

"No. Try again," not Sherlock says.

Tears try to squeeze past his eyelashes. He refuses their passage. Pushing up and away from the bed is easy, so much easier than belly crawling away from gunfire, easier still as acid burns angrily up his throat. The bathroom door slams against the wall, a gunshot in the darkness. He flinches, but pushes forward, stumbling to the sink. The water is cold and harsh against his overheated face. His fingers search out the light switch, flicking it on with his eyes still closed. Black turns to red behind his eyelids and his breath leaves him again. A whine greets his ears and he buries his face in a towel, scrubbing away at his skin, trying to quell the sound coming from his throat.

Sherlock (not here, not here) pulls the towel away from his face and John forces his eyes open. John eyes the mirage in the mirror.

"Shave, John."

He nods, his bones feeling loose and elastic. Shaving is good. Shaving means routine and routine keeps him moving. The small patch of weak sunlight peaking through the curtain tells him it is just past dawn, which also tells him that this is the time he should be getting ready for work anyway.

He moves on autopilot, opening the medicine cabinet and pulling down his shaving kit and can of foam. Switching the hot water on, he soaks the towel he was just using to scrub at his face. He slaps it down across his face as soon as it is soaked. It blocks out the light (and Sherlock). Water drips down his neck and he shudders, pulling the towel away and throwing it blindly towards the shower. His fingers shake as he rubs the shaving cream across his chin and up his cheeks. The sharp scrape of his stubble against his fingers soothes him, as the clean, minty scent fills his nose. It's comforting and as he raises the blade to his face, his fingers no longer shake. The dream (memory) drops away and with it the fear of meeting Sherlock's eyes. He remembers: screaming, throwing a lamp, hugging far too tightly.

This is Sherlock: living, breathing, smiling tentatively. Seeing recognition dawning in John's eyes, Sherlock nods in approval and pads out of the bathroom and out into the rest of the flat, giving him the space he needs to collect the rest of his thoughts. He takes his time, enjoying the repetition of the task set before him. Perhaps Sherlock knew that such a basic thing would be enough to ground him and he wonders briefly how he had guessed at it. As if summoned by his thoughts, Sherlock reappears with a mug of coffee and sets it down on the corner of the sink.

"The smell is what was important," he says, "You use the same brand of shaving cream your father did and you associate it with safety, with calm. I considered simply shoving some into your hands, but I thought touching you would be a bad idea, but you obviously were aware of me and still, for whatever reason, trusted me to help so: shaving."

"I forget sometimes," John says once he has found his voice. "I wake up and it feels like I need to wake up again." He taps his razor on the sink, dispelling a line of shaving cream, before starting on the other side of his face. "It'll take time. I'll get there." This is a line that Ella has taught him and he repeats because he wants to believe it. He needs to believe that at some point he will no longer jump at the sight of his best friend, alive and whole.

"Yes." Sherlock reaches out, fingers plucking the razor out of John's hand. "You've missed a spot." Deeming it safe now to touch, he cups John's chin and tilts it towards the light, positioning it just so. His fingers are warm and he moves with a quick and sure proficiency, gently wiping away the last bit of shaving foam clinging to John's ear.

Usually Sherlock is not here to witness his first few clouded waking minutes, but with clarity comes more memories. His body pressed against Sherlock's, a line of heat tingling down his spine and curling his toes, mouths and hands and fingernails leaving beautiful multihued marks. There is a lovely red and purple dotted bruise decorating Sherlock's neck and even as he stares at it, he can feel Sherlock's eyes on matching marks on his own body.

"Drink." He hands John the mug. The coffee is sweet, ridiculously so, but John drinks it nonetheless, feeling the buzz of it singing in his veins. This is Sherlock caring for him. He gulps the coffee down as Sherlock looms over him. As soon as he is finished, the mug is snatched out of his hand and Sherlock presses his lips against John's. Their teeth click and clack together in their rush. It's messy, but the heat that blossoms between them is perfect. Sherlock pulls away and caresses John's dark circles with one finger.

"You are exhausted. Come back to bed."

He shakes his head. "I don't think I can sleep."

"Then we won't sleep. Obviously."


End file.
